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> ■ -I 






A 

PAINTERS HOLIDAY 

and Other Poems 




BY 

BLISS CARMAN 

K 





New York 

PRIVATELY PRINTED 
1911 


V 


Copyright 19 ii by 

Frederic Fairchild Sherman 


To Mr. and Mrs. E. A Drake 
15, 16 April, 191 1 



CONTENTS 


A Painter s Houday 7 

On The Plaza i i 

Mirage 14 

A Christmas Stranger 
The Miracle 3Z 








A PAINTER'S HOLIDAY 



IE painters sometimes 
I strangely keep 
These holidays. When life 
runs deep 

. And broad and strong 


it comes to make 

Its own bright-colored almanack. 

Impulse and incident divine 

Must find their way through tone and line; 

The throb of color and the dream 

Of beauty, giving art its theme 

From dear life’s daily miracle, 

Illume the artist’s life as well. 

A bird-note, or a turning leaf. 

The first white fall of snow, a brief 
Wild song from the Anthology, 

A smile, or a girl’s kindling eye, — 

And there is worth enough for him 
To make the page of history dm 




Who knows upon what day may come 
The touch of that delirium 
Which lifts plain life to the divine, 

And teaches hand the magic line 
No cunning rule could ever reach, 

Where Souls necessities find speech? 

None knows how rapture may arrive 
To be our helper and survive 
Through our essay, to help in turn 
All starving eager souls who yearn 
Lightward discouraged and distraught. 

Ah, once art s gleam of glory caught 
And treasured in the heart, how then 
We walk enchanted among men. 

And with the elder gods confer! 

So art is hopes interpreter. 

And with devotion must conspire 
To fan the eternal altar fire. 

Wherefore you find me here to-day. 
Not idling the good hours away. 

But piAuring a magic hour 
With its replenishment of power. 

Conceive a bleak December day. 

The streets all mire, the sky all grey. 


And a pcxjr painter trudging home 
Disconsolate, when what should come 
Across his vision, but a line 
On a bold-lettered play-house sign, 

A Persian Sun Dancr 


In he turns. 

A step, and there the desert bums 
Purple and splendid; molten gold 
The streamers of the dawn unfold. 

Amber and amethyst uphurled 
Above the far rim of the world; 

The long-held sound of temple bells 
Over the hot sand steals and swells; 

A lazy tom-tom throbs and drones 
In barbarous maddening monotones; 
While sandal incense blue and keen 
Hangs in the air. And then the scene 
Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released. 
The sorcery of all the East, 

In rose and saffron gossamer, — 

A young light-hearted worshipper 
Who dances up the Sun. She moves 
Like waking woodland flower that loves 
To greet the day. Her lithe brown curve 
Is like a sapling s sway and swerve 

[9 


Before the spring wind. Her dark hair, 
Framing a face vivid and rare, 

Curled to her throat and then flew wild. 
Like shadows round a radiant child. 

The sunlight from her cymbals played 
About her dancing knees, and made 
A world of rose-lit ecstasy. 

Prophetic of the day to be. 

Such mystic beauty might have shown 
In Sardis or in Babylon, 

To bring a satrap to his doom 
Or touch some lad with glory's bloom. 
And now it wrought for me, with sheer 
Enchantment of the dying year. 

Its irresistible reprieve 

From joylessness, on New Year's Eve. 


lo] 


ON THE PLAZA 


NE August day I sat beside 
A cafe window, open wide 
To let the shower-freshened air 
Blow in across the Plaza, where 
In golden pomp against the dark 
Green leafy background of the Park, 

Saint Gaudens' hero gaunt and grim. 

Rides on with Vicitory leading him. 

The wet black asphalt seemed to hold 
In every hollow pools of gold. 

And clouds of gold and pink and grey 
Were piled up at the end of day 
Far down the cross street, where one tower 
Still glistened from the drenching shower. 

A weary white-haired man went by. 
Cooling his forehead gratefully 
After the day s great heat. A girl. 

Her thin white garments in a swirl 
Blown back against her breasts and knees. 
Like a Winged Victory in the breeze. 



Alive and modem and superb, 

Crossed from the circle to the curb. 

We sat there watching people pass, 
Clinking the ice against the glass 
And talking idly — ^books or art. 

Or something equally apart 
From the essential stress and strife 
That mdely form and further life. 

Glad of a respite from the heat. 

When down the middle of the street 
Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay 
In spite of the dull stifling day. 

Three street musicians came. The man. 
With hair and beard as black as Pan, 
Strolled on one side with lordly grace. 
While a young girl tugged at a trace 
Upon the other. And between 
The shafts there walked a laughing queen. 
Bright as a poppy, strong and free. 

What likelier land than Italy 
Breeds such abandon? Confident 
And rapturous in mere living spent 
Each moment to the utmost, there 
With broad deep chest and kerchiefed hair 


With head thrown back, bare throat,and waist 
Supple, heroic, and free-laced. 

Between her two companions walked 
This splendid woman, chaffed and talked. 
Did half the work, made all the cheer 
Of that small company. 


No fear 

Of failure in a soul like hers. 

That every moment throbs and stirs 
With merry ardor, virile hope. 

Brave effort, nor in all its scope 
Has room for thought of discontent. 

Each day its own sufficient vent 
And source of happiness. 

Without 

A trace of bitterness or doubt 
Of life's true worth, she strode at ease 
Before those empty palaces, 

A simple heiress of the earth 
And all its joys by happy birth. 
Beneficent as breeze or dew. 

And fresh as though the world were new 
And toil and grief were not How rare 
A personality was there! 


MIRAGE 



jERE hangs at last, you see, 

[ my row 

j Of sketches, — all I have to show 
; Of one enchanted summer spent 


In sweet laborious content. 

At little 'Sconset by the moors. 

With the sea thundering by its doors. 

Its grassy streets, and gardens gay 
With hollyhocks and salvia. 

And here upon the easel yet. 

With the last brush of paint still wet, 
(Showing how inspiration toils,) 

Is one where the white surf-line boils 
Along the sand, and the whole sea 
Lifts to the skyline just to be 
The wondrous background fi'om whose verge 
Of blue on blue there should emerge 
This miracle. 

One day of days 

I strolled the silent path that strays 


< 4 ] 



Between the moorlands and the beach 
From Siasconset, till you reach 
Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land 
That fronts the ocean, lone and grand 
As when the Lord first bade it be 
For a surprise and mystery. 

A sailless sea, a cloudless sky. 

The level lonely moors, and I 
The only soul in all that vast 
Of color made intense to last! 

The small white sea-birds piping near; 

The great soft moor-winds; and the clear 
Bright sun that pales each crest to jade. 
Where gulls glint fishing unafraid. 

Here man the godlike might have gone 
With his deep thought, on that wild dawn 
When the first sun came from the sea. 
Glowing and kindling the world to be. 
While time began and joy had birth, — 

No wilder sweeter spot on earth! 

As I sat there and mused, (the way 
We painters waste our time, you say! ) 

On the sheer loneliness and strength 
Whence life must spring, there came at length 
Convidion of the helplessness 


Of earth alone to ban or bless. 

I saw the huge unhuman sea; 

I heard the drear monotony 
Of the waves beating on the shore 
With heedless futile strife and roar, 
Without a meaning or an aim. 

And then a revelation came, 

In subtle sudden lovely guise. 

Like one of those soft mysteries 
Of Indian jugglers, who evoke 
A flower for you out of smoke. 

I knew sheer beauty without soul 
Could never be perfection s goal. 

Nor satisfy the seeking mind 
With all it longs for and must find 
One day. The lovely things that haunt 
Our senses with an aching want. 

And move our souls, are like the fair 
Lost garments of a soul somewhere. 

Nature is naught, if not the veil 
Of some great good that must prevail 
And break in joy, as woods of spring 
Break into song and blossoming. 

But what makes that great goodness start 
Within ourselves? When leaps the heart 

. 6 ] 


With gladness, only then we know 
Why lovely Nature travails so, — 

Why art must persevere and pray 
In her incomparable way. 

In all the world the only worth 
Is human happiness; its dearth 
The darkest ill. Let joyance be. 

And there is God s sufficiency, — 

Such joy as only can abound 

When the heart s comrade has been found. 

That was my thought And then the sea 
Broke in upon my revery 
With clamorous beauty, — ^the superb 
Eternal noun that takes no verb 
But love. The heaven of dove-like blue 
Bent o er the azure, round and true 
As magic sphere of crystal glass. 

Where faidi sees plain the pageant pass 

Of things unseen. So I beheld 

The sheer sky-arches domed and belled. 

As if the sea were the very floor 
Of heaven where walked the gods of yore 
In Plato's imagery, and I 
Uplifted saw their pomps go by. 


[>7 


The House of space and time grew tense 
As if with rapture's imminence, 

When tmth should be at last made clear, 
And the great worth of life appear; 

While I, a worshipper at the shrine. 

For very longing grew divine. 

Borne upward on earth's ecstasy. 

And welcomed by the boundless sky. 

A mighty prescience seemed to brood 
Over that tenuous solitude 
Yearning for form, till it became. 

Vivid as dream and live as flame, 

Through magic art could never match. 

The vision I have tried to catch, — 

All earth's delight and meaning grown 
A lyric presence loved and known. 

How otherwise could time evolve 
Young courage, or the high resolve. 

Or gladness to assuage and bless 
The soul's austere great loneliness. 

Than by providing her somehow 
With sympathy of hand and brow. 

And bidding her at last go free. 
Companioned through eternity? 


. 8 ] 


So there appeared before my eyes, 

In a beloved familiar guise, 

A vivid questing human face 
In profile, scanning heaven for grace. 
Up-gazing there against the blue 
With eyes that heaven itself shone through; 
The lips soft-parted, half in prayer. 

Half confident of kindness there; 

A brow like Plato's made for dream 
In some immortal Academe, 

And tender as a happy girl's; 

A full dark head of clustered curls 
Round as an emperor's, where meet 
Repose and ardor, strong and sweet. 
Distilling from a mind unmarred 
The glory of her rapt regard. 

So eager Mary might have stood. 

In love's adoring attitude. 

And looked into the angel's eyes 
With faith and fearlessness, all wise 
In iwul's unfaltering innocence. 

Sure in her woman's supersense 
Of things only the humble know. 

My vision looks forever so. 


[«9 


In other years when men shall say, 
“What was the painters meaning, pray? 
Why all this vast of sea and space. 

Just to enframe a womans face?” 

Here is the pertinent reply, 

“What better use for earth and sky?” 

The great archangel passed that way 
Illuming life with mystic ray. 

Not Lippo s self nor Raphael 
Had lovelier realer things to tell 
Than I, beholding far away 
How all the melting rose and gray 
Upon the purple sea-line leaned 
About that head that intervened. 

How real was she? Ah, my friend. 

In art the fad; and fancy blend 
Past telling. All the painters task 
Is with the glory. Need we ask 
The tulips breaking through the mould 
To their untarnished age of gold, 
Whence their ideals were derived 
That have so gloriously survived? 
Flowers and painters both must give 
The hint they have received, to live, — 


ao] 


Spend without stint the joy and power 
That lurk in each propitious hour, — 
Yet leave the why untold — Gods way. 

My sketch is all I have to say. 


THE CHRISTMAS STRANGER 



OU wonder how I ever drew 
That “Galilean Workman” — ^who 
The model could have been 
I to give 

My work the charm that makes it live. 

That gracious yet compelling mien 
So full of power and poise, that keen 
Yet calm unfathomable gaze 
Of one who looks upon the maze 
Of human folly and still sees 
More than our mere infirmities, 

With lips that almost smile. 


My friend, 

I painted that at one years end, 

Long ago now. The swirling snow 
Down from the sky, up from below. 
Smothered my window with strange light 
That morning in a world all white. 


I came from battling with the storm 
Into the studio all warm. 



All welcome with its atmosphere 
Of patient beauty, work and cheer. 
Built up the fire; and turned once more 
To seek the one thing striven for 
So mightily by all our tribe. 

The magic no one can describe. 

The final touch and miracle 
Of beauty saying, “All is well.” 

I had a sense of quiet peace. 

Seclusion, respite and release. 

At being snow-bound for a day. 

With interruptions shut away. 

Hardly had I begun to paint. 

In that full mood of unrestraint 
So typical of Christmas Eve, 

When some one silently took leave 
To turn the latch and enter. 


There, 

With his serene though wistful air. 
As if too modest to assume 
My need of him (although the room 
Was radiant with his manliness 
And quietude of proud address). 


Fronting the world in all men s sight 
From his uncompromising height 
And bearing of sweet dignity, 

He stood at pause regarding me — 

A foreign model, as I thought. 

Seeking employment, till I caught 
The brow s repose, the eyes command. 
The mouth s compassioa Then the hand 
Was laid upon the bowing breast. 

The Orient s way, the head depressed 
To honor me; while all my heart 
Went out to him, alone, apart. 

And far above the mortal men 
My sight had looked upon till thea 

Speechless I was before him there. 
And then the glorious head, the hair 
A mass of wavy coppery gold. 

Was lifted up. My hand took hold 
Of the chair-back instinctively. 

As the clear eyes were turned on me. 

Then with a diction pure and fine 
And statelier than yours or mine. 

And in a rhythmical clear voice 
I heard him saying: “Friend, rejoice! 


The time is drawing near — ^the hour 
When love, intelligence and power 
Shall be made one, as once they were 
In the beginning, when the stir 
Of will took thought, and for the sake 
Of beauty bade the world awake. 

“Is the time long, and do the years 
Outwear thy patience? Are there tears 
Beneath the proud triumphant strain 
Of art, the stmggle to attain? 

Does doubt at moments blur away 
The light within the lamp of clay? 

“O workman, conscious of the hint 
Of glory in the line and tint. 

And searching for the tmth, take heart; 

The haunting secret of thy art 

Shall be made clear, and thou shalt know 

How earth was fashioned long ago — 

How all the wheeling stars were made 
And their appointed orbits laid. 

How space was bridged and time was spanned 
And power was harnessed to command. 

Till form emerged from measured space. 

And rhythm was bom of time — ^the trace 


Of mind upon eternity — 

And power (a tide within a sea) 

Became within its ordered grooves 
Not only that which lives and moves, 

But that which cares and understands. 

“Behold the work of thine own hands — 
Is it not so therein? First springs 
From vague unmarked imaginings 
The sweet desire; then sudden thought 
In some strange secret fire is caught 
And kindled; and there stands new-born 
Thy fresh ideal, dear as mom 
And tender as the evening. Then 
Remains the godlike task of men. 

To realize that fair design 
In sound, in color or in line. 

Till what was dreamed of good and tme 
Takes on the guise of beauty too. 

As faith compels and means afford. 

This is thy passion and reward. 

“So is the world renewed at length 
In wisdom, holiness and strength; 

The vision of the perfect gcxxl 
Imposed upon the void and cmde; 


And the benign creative will 
Slowly ascendant over ill, 

Accomplishing the sweep and plan 
Of the development of man. 

“No hue upon thy palettes rim 
But leads the mind s eye up to Him, 

The godlike One who is to be 
The Crown and Lord of destiny. 

No line upon the canvas laid 
But shall declare how, unafraid. 
Adventuring the bold and new. 

Thy spirit dared bid hope come tme. 
Aspiring to supreme success — 

The saving power of loveliness. 

“Would He who made the water wine 
Deny employment such as thine 
Its word of praise, and not commend 
Thy art s endeavor to transcend 
The here and now with something more 
Than ever was accounted for 
By mle and learning? Take thou heed. 
And in the hour of thy souls need. 

Despair not! Only set more high 
Above the day s idolatry 


Thy shining mark, then wait unmoved 
Until events thy faith have proved; 

And the round world shall bless thy name, 
Seeing at last thy only aim 
Was but to feed its multitude 
With math, with beauty and with good. 
The water and bread and wine of life. 

“Is not thy longing and thy strife 
To mold the plastic medium 
To form and rhythm, endow the dumb 
Material with speech, awake 
The spirit in the clay, and make 
The soul within the color sing 
For rapture like the birds of spring? 

Does not the music-master fill 
The silence with desire and will. 

And give to vague and wandering sound 
Order, significance and bound? 

And what is that but to give soul 
To substance, reason and control 
To formless chaos, taking part 
In the illimitable art 
Whose Spirit moved upon the face 
Of the great waters under space. 


^ 8 ] 


And shed the darkness from the light, 
And far from near, and depth from height. 
And false from tme, and good from ill. 
With limits set for them to fill? 

“Let glory go, care not for gain! 

Thy great reward shall still remain — 

The good for which thy toiling days 
Were given without heed of praise. 

Thy intimate and splendid thought 
Made adual in beauty fraught 
With joy, with passion, and with power. 
Not in some far predicted hour. 

But even now thy heart shall know 
The wells of gladness. To bestow 
On beauty all the benefit 
Of being, all thy skill and wit. 

Thy purpose and thy endless pains. 

Is thy great task. One thing remains — 
Thou knowest — one and only one. 
Without which all were left undone: 
Love. Hast thou freely given with all 
Thy life's endeavor beyond recall 
Thy love each day? For love must be 
Poured out and spent ungmdgingly. 


To give thy work a soul — the fire 
Of understanding and desire 
And loveliness — to help the end 
And purpose of creation's trend. 

Else were all effort vain, and thou 
Wert judged and sentenced even now 
By thine own heart’s tribunal. 

“Yea, 

The difficult and ancient way 
To beauty lies through urge and stress 
Where knowledge walks with love. Unless 
Great Love arise and take thy hand 
In that unknown and doubtful land. 

Not all thy cunning can avail 
To read the signs and keep the trail; 

Not love of self and self's employ. 

But the untarnished seraph's joy 
In serving others with the best 
Hand can achieve or brain attest 
I charge thee in this world, above 
All other things, destroy not love! 

For life must spring from life, and soul 
Be given sustenance of soul. 

And knowing love with toil, thine eyes 
This day shall see love's Paradise. 


Wilt thou not also follow me?' 


His smile was like the April sea, 

His presence like the hills at dawn. 

And then in silence he was gone. 

"What think you — ^with that mental twist, — 
A madman or an optimist? 

At all events there stands to-day 
My “Galileaa” Say your say; 

But life took on a change, believe. 

That memorable Christmas Eve. 


[ 3 ‘ 


THE MIRACLE 


PEAKING of art, and how 
we need 

To give our lives up to succeed 
Even a little; it is more 
Than that, I fancy. Many pour 
Their lives out freely and yet reach 
No point they aim for. You may teach. 

And they will learn quickly enough — 
Take every hint, however gmff 
Or casual, draw, study, toil 
Like very diggers of the soil. 

Yet never once achieve that touch 
Which looks so little, means so much. 

And comes but by the grace of God, 
When all is said. Yes, it is odd. 

How one may strive, yet miss the mark. 

The incommunicable spark! 

That is the only phrase that tells 
The tmth about the charm which dwells 
In mastery, which is not bought. 

Nor had by any taking thought; 



3a] 


A gift, inheritance, or dower, 

A true possession, yet a power 
To cultivate at will and use 
Or not, as freely as we choose. 

It matters not in having it. 

Assured and adequate and fit. 

Whether you're Rafael or Keats, 
Beethoven with his music sheets. 

Or the young lad who drew that thing 
Behind the easel there. What swing. 
What quiet sorcery of line. 

So sure, so final, and so fine. 

To win and satisfy regard! 

It is so easy — and so hard 

The Word, as tme as when it came 

To Moses from the bush of flame! 

Sometimes the gift may lie unguessed 
For years, until a spring is pressed 
And a door opens in the walls 
Of being, and its master calls. 

That's genius. But how find the key 
To that unworldly treasury; 

How reach the room and light the fire 
Which kindles not at our desire. 


[33 


For all our efibrt? I know one 
Instance, to show what may be done 
By way of setting genius free 
To prove its own divinity — 

One way to startle and arouse 
The sleeping angel that we house. 

Love laughs at locksmiths, as we say. 
You may be sure he knows the way 
Into the garden of the heart 
Where all the springs of greamess start — 
Sorrow and pity and remorse 
And many-colored joy. Of course 
The story is not meant for those 
Who spend a lifetime on the pose 
Of living. You who paint and carve 
And sing and dance and play — and starve 
In art s great service every day 
Will understand me when I say. 
Knowledge and skill are not enough 
Ever to take the place of love; 

That hands and brains may strive and die 
In their own dwarfed fatuity. 

Unless they learn what love must know. 
And follow where it bids them go. 


34] 


Unless the dauntless soul take part 
In all their toil, there is no art, 

No life, no wizardry, no power. 

Only contrivance — like a flower 
Of paper, every curve and hue. 

Texture and hair, exad; and true. 

But lifeless. Did God ever lay 
Color and shape upon the clay. 

And not bestow the soul as well? 

Is there an atom or a cell 
Unvibrant in the universe? 

Is beauty impotent or worse? 

How came the substance and the plan 
Into accord to make up man? 

Was there no energy, no will. 

No joy to throb, no love to thrill? 

You say the world was made from naught 
But plastic matter and pure thought 
I cannot think so. You supply 
The What and How. I ask the Why. 
There must have been desire, control. 

And gladness, — ^attributes of soul. 

There must be caring where there’s mind; 
There must be both at once behind 


[35 


All beauty. That's the mystery, 

Yet reason, in this world for me. 

And that is why all art must fail 
That has no love, — all life grow stale 
And ineffedtual and old. 

Why hope goes out, why faith turns cold. 
Why joy expires and strength is wrecked. 
And evil walks the world unchecked. 

Like fools we cast out love, then crave 
The happy radiance he gave. 

To put the heart into the work. 

Is the one law we may not shirk 
Nor alter, standing near to Him 
Who framed the stars and bade them swim. 
Who set the music of the sea 
To sound his rhythm continually. 

Whose painting of the sunrise glows 
With tints of daffodil and rose 
Along the silent dark, and thrills 
The blue-green-purple of the hilk. 

Whose word called chaos up to norm. 

And gave it motion, rhythm and form. 
Beauty and purpose and design. 

The soul in colour and in line 


36] 


Convinces me, who daily use 
Experience of tones and hues, 

(As it must you who know the trick 
Of Music s great arithmetic) 

There is a mind which lurks below 
These pomps of Nature which we know. 
Nor a mind merely, but a heart 
Which beats its loving into art 
I bow to the eternal Skill, 

The great Artificer, whose will 
Sustains the world. All you who make 
Experiment for beauty's sake. 

With shape, with colour, or with sound. 
Confess if you have ever found 
The hidden magic which must give 
Your work the touch to make it live. 

In anything but love! Ah, there 
The secrets of divine despair 
Reside, the triumph and the dream. 

The fairy call, the silver gleam. 

The joy, the sorrow and the hope. 

The plan, the splendor, and the scope. 
Which soul must capture and impart. 
To lend her new-created art 
Its ravishment, — ^and man may share 
In God's serene employment there. 


I charge you in his name, fling down 
Your paints and brushes, and discrown 
Your Victory, unless your soul 
Has felt what love is, — as a coal 
Revives and kindles in the breath 
Which gives it life instead of death. 

Or as a leaf caught up and swirled 
Before a wind across the world. 

That pure great wind which sweeps away 
Sorrow, perplexity, dismay. 

And leaves its deathless trace behind 
In the enchantment of the mind 

But if your spirit once has known 
A welling rapture of its own, 

A wildness or an ecstasy 
Which gave it power, and set it free. 

And made this doubtful life appear 
Lovely, beneficent, and clear. 

Then only can you comprehend 
The source, the meaning, and the trend 
Of wonder in this world of ours. 

And reach to God with all your powers 
Through art s august simplicity. 

In the one way which still is three. 


38] 


If ever once there came to you 
The vision that makes all things new, 
The glory that makes all things good. 
Then have you seen and understood 
How fair the truth is. Not till then 
Have you the touch to solace mea 

But, for my instance: On our floor 
A German singing-master s door 
Was next to mine, when studios 
Could hardly smother ah s and oh s. 

As they do now. Besides, in spring 
We used to let our transoms swing. 
Unbent but grayish, somewhat old 
Behind his spectacles of gold. 

And rather worn the man was now. 
With the unvanquished smile and brow 
Which come to artists having wives. 
Yet loving beauty all their lives. 

Among his pupils there was one. 
With pretty wavy hair like spun 
Fine yellow gold, who came to sing — 
A well-made, well-kept little thing. 
With her tan gloves and long tan coat. 
Soft tie and collar at her throat. 


[39 


And music-roll in hand, — ^the kind 
To keep that poise and peace of mind 
Where safety and contentment dwell. 

It seems she had a heart as well. 

She was his marvel and despair. 

She had so confident an air, 

Such clear, full, faultless certainty 
Of power and ease, one wondered why 
That ringing glorious voice of gold. 

For all its splendor, left one cold; 

And why she never had acquired 
The shivering rapture he desired. 

Talking of her, he used to say, 

“Ah, veil, perhaps some day — ^some day!" 

Now, Enter Mephistopheles, 
Bringer of Knowledge, if you please. 

I used to leave my door swung wide 
To glimpse her passing, eager-eyed 
One day in April she appeared. 

As lovely as the sky just cleared. 

And fresh as jonquils. One could tell 
By nod and footstep all was well 


In her bright world, with golden spring 
In town. Then she began to sing; 

Softly at first; and then more strong, 
Where the notes vibrate and prolong; 
And then, as if she had forgot 
All fear, and earth and time were not. 

In one great lyric ecstasy 
Daring and passionate and firee. 

Opening her throat against the tune. 
Sang like a thrush in early June. 

I never heard such rapture. All 
Of love was in its dying fall. 

The faith, the triumph, and the pride. 
For which the world has lived and died 
These countless years; the joyous fire. 
Courage, magnificence, desire. 

Pity, unfathomable grief. 

And pain and sadness, and relief. 

All this enchantment warm and wild. 
Out of the heart of one mere child! 

I put my brush aside and stopped 
My painting, while the music dropped 
Into the silence word by word. 

As softly as a throbbing bird 

[4. 


Drops to the waiting nest, content 
That all its rapture should be spent 
I drew a breath. “At last!” I cried, 

“At last her Heaven has been descried!” 

She always left at four; and so. 

When presently I heard her go, 

I sat down in my window seat 
To follow Jonquils down the street. 

As usual. When, standing there 

I saw a handsome lad, whose air 

Told plainly he was glad to wait 

For someone. I considered Fate 

Was much too good to him. Why blame? 

When I was young I did the same. 

And then I saw Miss Jonquils trip 
Across the way to him, and slip 
Her gloved, confiding, little hand 
Under his grey-tweed arm, and stand 
Nestling it there a minute, lost 
In plans, no doubt, before they crossed 
The Avenue and disappeared. 

They were my drama. If I feared 
How it might end, I called it Youth, 

Or Dreams of Ecstasy and Truth. 


No doubt they had another name 
To call it by. 'T is all the same. 

I loved them both. I turned away, 

And there was no more work that day. 
Well, who could work upon the Feast 
Of Vernal Joy? Not I, at least 

Leaving my room, with one day more 
Dropped out of time, I heard the door 
Of the old teachers studio 
Clatter; and he came out to go 
His cheerless pensive way uptown. 

I offered him, as we went down 
The steps together, (he, so good 
And fine in his old fortitude!) 
Congratulations on the way 
His favorite had sung that day. 

He smiled his slow, sweet smile: “ Mein Gott, 
Dot vas a miracle, hei? Vhat?” 

I told him I believed so too. 

With reservations, so I do. 


[43 


ONE HUNDRED AND HFTY COPIES OF THIS BOOK 
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